One does not simply WALK into Brighton

Day 18 of London to Brighton Training: In which I visit something called the ‘Gym’.

I am a member of a gym.

Now, to be honest, this is not some great revelation or lifestyle change brought on by my embracing this challenge.  I have been a member of a gym, indeed of this gym, for some considerable time.  Indeed, I am considered their most valued member, as I pay my fees every month without a murmur, yet contribute nothing to the wear and tear on their equipment. However, the realisation that I now have only a matter of some four months before the challenge, combined with my newly-rediscovered aversion to getting wet has led me to the inescapable conclusion that it is to the gym I must go.

The gym to which I have been contributing profit is one of the ‘posh’ ones, part of one of the original large chains with ‘branches’ around the Country.  No dingy rooms full of free weights, smelling of determination and liniment, populated by steroid-drenched men with bald heads and skins stretched over 200 pounds of sausages for me, oh no.  My gym won’t even let you have a locker unless you can prove that at least 3 of the items you will put in it have logos from a list of approved designers.  It is a while since I have been, but I noticed only small changes and, as before, it offers some wonderful opportunities for the amateur anthropologist and people-watcher.  As such, I noticed that the clientele seems to break down into some simple demographics:

Firstly, there is the ENTP (Empty Nest Tennis Player).  In their later years, with more time (and disposable income) on their hands they have recognised the need for some exercise and their chosen activity is Tennis; leaping around the courts like gazelles, although one should consider that, like gazelles, they are not as fast as they used to be and as such, tend to be the first ripped to shreds by the lions. The club organises competitions, leagues, matches and there is an active social life around it, so it can be considered as Bridge, with Balls.  This group also seems to include a sub-group of lady players who, although they may not fit exactly into the demographic, can be considered as what the Hells Angels call ‘Prospects’.  Their children may still be at home, but they have the income, time and cosmetic enhancement place to blend in.  

Then there is the SBDOW (Sent by Dr or Wife). They can be identified by the bagginess of clothing, tendency to invest in something they believe will make them fit in more (headbands seem popular) and a complete inability to work out how to use their offspring’s cast-off iPod. Most often found on the exercise bike, they adopt an expression of grim determination and the newbie-to-exercise’s version of the 1000 stare.  Frequent glances at their watch are clearly to see whether they can stop yet, despite trying to cultivate an air of checking performance.  Occasionally they venture onto some new piece of equipment, such as the stairmaster, with an expression that clearly echoes Dorothy Parker’s exclamation of “Oh what fresh hell is this?”

 

 

By far the largest group in a Gym like this are the BBGBW’s (BoyBand GirlBand Wannabe’s). They present more logos than the Formula 1 paddock and seem to have deployed some sort of Star Trek deflector around their hair and makeup which, no matter how much they move, stays immovable and unchanged.  The BB contingent sport watches with faces the size of grandfather clocks, whilst the GB’s, despite their youth, have obviously succumbed to the tender mercies of the surgeon, so that when running, part of their anatomy ploughs forwards, like the prow of an Icebreaker, gyroscopically stabilised.

 Not that I was looking, naturally.

A new sub-group does appear to have appeared since my last visit however, which is the FEBC (Former Eastern Bloc Commando). Typically tall, athletic and built to withstand a direct hit by a cruise missile, it is clear that, as they exercise, they can still hear the shouts of a Spetznaz sergeant-major in their ears.  They are typically accompanied by Mrs FEBC, but other than being typically blonde, I cannot really describe her.  I apologise for this omission, but I felt that observing - even surreptitiously for the purposes of this blog – the good lady of a man designed to crawl on his stomach from Russia to London, blow up an airbase then crawl back is probably not a man to take people-watching lightly.

 And then there’s me.

As explained, it is some considerable time since I have been to the gym, yet the machinery does not seem to have changed much.  Then again, visiting a torture chamber from the 15^th Century probably does not look that much different to one from the 18^th. However I was familiar with many of the machines, although I wasn’t used to seeing an exercise bike, rowing machine or cross trainer without them being used to hang clothes.  As I was still in some pain, I decided that trying to do too much or too many of these contraptions myself, as the lessons of Judo were still fresh in my mind, so settled on the ‘Cross Trainer’.

Now, I’m not sure whether the ‘Cross’ refers to what is being exercised or the emotion is instilled by trying to work the thing out, but I began to understand how previous generations may have felt when confronted with items like the first video recorders.  I am reasonably sure that the last time I ventured onto one of these things; it was a case of setting a time and maybe a degree of resistance and then off you went.  Not now.  Now, you have to enter your weight, your height.  You decide what you want to achieve – distance, fat burning, climbing mountains and various other combinations. You decide whether you want to use a pre-defined program or build your own.  You decide on the display options (round a track, up a mountain) and then, and only then, do you get to decide on the resistance level.  Finally, you’re presented by what you want to watch as you walk. TV? Certainly Sir, what channel? Terrestrial or Satellite? Or the in-house channel combining music with stupid suggestions about entering competitions?  Something Sir’s iPod perhaps?  Or from a Media Stick?

Having made some decisions about all these options, one is left mentally exhausted and yet is still faced with actually USING the flipping thing.

 So you start walking.

 And then you stop, as you realise some of the decisions you’ve made regarding all the options weren’t what you wanted.  But as you stop, the machine assumes you’ve stopped to complete your exercise, since it is obviously not used to or designed for the indecisive or less-committed of us.  So you desperately start walking again whilst trying to select buttons and change options.  This is not as easy as it sounds.

I don’t know if you have ever used one of these machines, but it consists of two moving foot platforms, combined with two handles that move backwards and forwards.  The idea is that as your left foot pushes down, your right hand pushes forwards and vice versa, much like walking with poles.

 But without the mud, which is good.

 It may sound simple, but as explained in a previous post, for some reason my body seems to find moving the same hand and foot together far more logical, but unlike walking with poles, the machine simply won’t allow this.  If you try, nothing moves.  Or, if already moving, it decides you’re an idiot and spits you off like an epileptic bull in a rodeo.  However, after a little while, my body surrenders to the need for coordination and I begin to move forwards.

Well, I thought I was moving forwards.  Until some passing fellow sufferer asked me if I found walking backwards was better exercise?  I explained that my Father had been a referee and therefore often trained by running backwards and I think I got away with it.  I did some 30 minutes on this rather strange machine, which is fine as long as I didn’t catch sight of myself in the mirror.  Walking and swinging your arms forward makes you look as if you’re parodying yourself and, with music playing, it’s very hard not to look like your father embarrassing you at family weddings by doing ‘The Twist’ to Beyonce and one has to consciously control the risk of ‘White Man’s over-bite’.

It suddenly occurs to me that I AM now the Father embarrassing the kids by dancing at family weddings.  Perhaps I should go back tonight and train some more?

 

At the end of 30 minutes, I actually felt quite good, but I’m told that, in terms of exercising, this is bad.  If exercise is good you should feel bad in a good way as bad is good although feeling bad in a bad way is bad, whilst feeling good in a good way is bad.

Got it?  Good.

I finished off the evening with a few lengths of swimming which, oddly, hurt my sulking hamstring far more than the cross-trainer had.  It seems I have a lot to learn about what is bad good.

 In an ideal world, I would have gone back to the gym today and done some more.  But in an ideal world, someone would invent a fitness pill and I could simply take one three times a day with food.  However, I am planning on another visit, to see whether the rowing machines allow me to indulge my fantasies of being a Viking. 

Do you think Nike or Adidas do a Horned Helmet?

 (If you’ve enjoyed this post and you're feeling generous, you can sponsor me at http://www.justgiving.com/Richard-Stanton2 - doesn’t matter how much, every penny is really gratefully received.  Thank you.)